Under the gun
by Toni Harrison
Summary: Danny in a very difficult situation narrative in the main. A bit of a random one this. A few choice words in there Please r&r. Thanks.


Title: Under the gun.

Summary: Danny in a very difficult situation. (It's all a bit random I'm afraid)

Authors note and spoiler info: First WaT fic in donkey's years. This is probably right up til before End Game spoilers wise (not that there are many even then)

Would appreciate any feedback you have as I feel completely rusty in all this. Thanks.

* * *

Just one flick of his finger, that's all it'll take. Just one little flick.

It feels like I've been stood here frozen to the spot for almost a century. Okay, a little melodrama...

I don't see how I can't be excused a little melodrama on this occasion though.

A routine interview shouldn't go like this. And all because I'm a cocky son of a bitch. Actually, if I get out of this, I think the words Jack will use will be a little stronger than that and the words idiotic, foolhardy and insane may come into his vocabulary too.

Come to think of it, he's right.

I always used to trust my instincts, right up til 15 minutes ago in fact. All this time since I've been thinking about anything else except the flick of that finger. I keep seeing it shake, I keep thinking he'll tire soon. There's no way on this earth I could keep my finger like that, hell  
my arm like that in that one space for 15 minutes.

It's still there though. Occasionally there's a tremor, but nothing more. I refuse to look in his eyes. I'm afraid I guess of what I may see there. I may see that this person's willing to go to the chair for this.

So I continue to stare at that finger willing it to show the sign of dropping away from the trigger. For the hand to bend and the guy to fall on his knees, like they all do, like it happens on all the cop shows and in the movies. For the hero of the hour to march right on over to the perp, put a firm but kindly arm on his shoulder, read him his rights and go home to his wife called Betty, and his 2.4 children.

I almost laugh. I'm glad it never surfaces as I'm scared it may emerge as a strangled sob. There's a part of my insides that are turning to jelly. All those unglamorous things that Eastwood, McQueen and John Wayne wouldn't tell you about. Mainly of course for the very reason that they'd never know.

I've never spent an awful lot of my life wondering what a bullet would feel like. In a job like mine, you face certain risks sure, and yeah I've been shot at but you're out there to help people. Not in a Miss World kinda way, just to resolve some things for the families, be it in a good way or not.

And yeah, you meet the bad guys. And yeah, sometimes they shoot at you and Sam's proof of that if ever it were needed. But I've had this feeling for some time like we have a invisible cloak protecting us. Like up there some guardian angel's looking out for us.

Like, how can you explain the fact that I got through the drink problem, that I'm relatively normal and unscathed from it. I've thought all the way through, though I'd never admit it, that perhaps my mother's been up there watching my back all along.

That what she couldn't do for herself when she was alive, or for me and my brother, she was doing her damndest to make up for with the help of some higher power. I've always conveniently disregarded the shit that's happened. Like how I got involved in drink in the first place, like how my Brother's life turned to shit, like how I'm not married to Betty with 2.4 children.

My Mom's a saint. She ain't no miracle worker.

She also quite clearly must be sleeping on the job right now.

From nowhere, there's a realisation in me that 1. I've not said two words to this guy since he pulled the gun on me and 2. I'm probably going to die.

And it's ironic. I always imagined that when I did die, that I'd be jabbering away, wisecracking my way to my grave, and also that it would've happened a hell of a lot earlier in my life in some seedy alley either shot in the head by some gang member perhaps, or a few years later perhaps of exposure from falling asleep in a drunken state having pissed my pants and being found by some prostitute I'd made acquaintance with a a few hours earlier.

I never imagined that I'd die in a nice part of this city, on someone's pristine white carpet by some guy none of us could ever have imagined would be a threat.

Still that finger doesn't move and I almost go to pinch myself, thinking suddenly I must be dreaming, that at any moment I'll feel that unmistakeable feeling of falling down stairs and that I'll wake up just before I get to the bottom. Then I'll get up eat some toast, have some coffee and go and work another day.

Only I know damn well that it's real and that if I were now to start daydreaming, I think I'd land at the bottom of the stairs and the lights would go out permanently on me.

So then, this IS the guy who killed his daughter and her two best friends. The respectable lawyer widowed 3 years ago. Even 30 minutes ago as I got out the car, just to ask why the car he'd hired two weeks ago and which Triona, Lucy and Amber had been seen getting into, had fibres matching their clothing on the day they disappeared and DNA that matched his exactly.

What a dumb fuck I was to come out here on my own. And all because I felt we'd made a 'connection' over this last few weeks. The fact that I'd been there at that press conference for his daughter and with Lucy and Amber's parents when they'd hugged. The fact that whenever a new bit of news came out I'd go see him and we'd sit and talk til the early hours. Ignoring all Sam and Viv's warnings about it.

I don't even know why we connected, we're so different. Perhaps he was a player all along. Perhaps I was convenient. Get a man onside and they won't believe it's you.

And even as all the evidence stacked up, I still came here and even as it came through this morning confirming what Jack, Viv and everyone had been saying for weeks, I still denied it in my head.

Jack said to wait until he arrived at the office, to 'not, I repeat not Danny Taylor so help me' go off on my own to see the guy, that he could be dangerous.

Did I listen to him? Yeah for all of five seconds. No surprises for guessing what happened next.

You'd think I'd have known not to be so stupid. Even in his earliest days, I figure Martin would never have been so stupid.

I plan on apologising to them all. I have no idea how though. It's a little difficult to apologise I'm guessing with a bullet lodged in your brain.

Suddenly from nowhere, there's another noise other than that of my inner monologue and for the first time I look elsewhere other than at his fingers, I see his mouth moving and I hear his words and I recognise the tears falling from his face.

'Why did YOU have to come?' Good question buddy. More to the point, did I actually remember to tell them where I was going or was that another thought that I was reserving til later?

He's continuing to cry and talk at the same time. And it's not good I can tell you that much. He's saying that no-one will understand what it was like. That he had no choice.

They were going to the cops about him. That he'd read her diary and saw what they were planning. It was either them or him.

And for the first time I see the man before me for what he is and I feel sick, angry and I know what a fool I am. That I'm not the wise guy. And that I ever get out of this and if they don't kick me out, I won't be making any rash judgements any time soon.

I also feel an overwhelming urge to be foolhardy one last time, pull my gun out, shoot the bastard where it really would hurt him and if I die in the process so be it.

I don't of course. Instead I open my mouth and reasoned words pour from somewhere 'Don't worry about it buddy, we can solve this'. Who am I kidding?

'If you just put your gun down, we can have a talk, and I'll make sure nothing bad happens'. Yeah like a child murderer and rapist'll get off easy.

I can tell he's not convinced. Surely even the biggest idiot wouldn't be?

What's that say about me? Except perhaps that I really want to live. And I'm beginning to run out of words and out of steam, and even more importantly out of time.

That never happens in the movies either. The hero cop talks in platitudes and cliches for 5 minutes, the guy looks like he'll shoot him between the eyes, that's been his M.O the whole way through the film after all, but sure enough a few golden words from Clint and it's all forgotten about and Clint's boss ruffles his head, jokes about suspending him and Dodge City returns to normal.

Then just as I'm drifting off, almost at the point of acceptance of my fate, another voice comes from nowhere and I realise suddenly that the noise I'd heard earlier hadn't been my stomach after all, it was cars arriving outside. Without sirens. Jack's definitely not stupid.

And that voice there is Jack again. And he's pleading with Robert to finish this, that it'll all be okay, that we can solve this and nothing too bad will happen. If it wasn't so serious, I'd be rolling my eyes and gesturing to Robert about what a joker Jack is.

Then from nowhere, he smiles. Robert actually smiles. And it scares me.

He shouts out to Jack and to the world out there to give him a minute. And he smiles again at me.

Jack responds. That's all cool. Jack shouts out to 'let Danny go'. And Robert smiles again. He says we'll go out of there together.

There's little alarm bells going off in my head. It's like being in Switzerland in a cuckoo clock factory I imagine.

I'm watching him so clearly and my right hand has moved, he's not even watching me so I can do this and my hand moves to the top of my gun.

He's looking in his mirror and fixing his tie, smiling and singing to his reflection. 'Oh what a beautiful morning' and he's got a voice like Howard Keel. He turns and smiles that smile again, moves across the room again, shakes my hand and just as I'm smiling and saying 'With a voice like that you could be on the...' suddenly with the gun I'd been staring at so resolutely for so long and with the finger I have ingrained in my head, he calmly shoots himself in the head.

I cry out. Later on they'll tell me it was more of a scream.

They'll me that I should be over it. Like two days later I could be over that. They'll think I should be relieved that it didn't end worse.

What they won't know and they never will is that in every smile I'll see now and in the future, I don't think I'll ever not see him and his face exploding. That I'll tense instantly for the gunshot. That if I ever heard that song again I'll crumble and that it'll just about all I can do not to rush over to my cupboard and grab that drink right off the shelf.

I guess for some it's a damn good thing they think it's just like the movies.


End file.
